Beyond Inclusion: When Control Is Mistaken for Care

We are told that schools value inclusion. It is a word that carries weight, repeated often, yet rarely examined closely. It is held up as evidence of progress, as if the promise of inclusion is enough to guarantee equity. But education was never designed to be inclusive. It was built by and for those in positions of power, and what we now call “inclusion” has always been defined on their terms.

Instead of reimagining schools, systems have tried to make inclusion fit into structures that were never meant for it, and the result is harm. Inclusion, as it currently works, is less about belonging and more about control. Which raises the harder question: should inclusion even be the goal? If inclusion only means allowing students in on conditional terms, then what we need is not more inclusion, but a transformation of education itself into something rooted in care, equity, and belonging.

Being present in a classroom is not the same as being included.

A seat in the room does not guarantee belonging.

Too often, presence is mistaken for progress while the deeper work of equity, dignity, autonomy, and care remains untouched. Students may be physically there, but if they are expected to erase parts of themselves in order to stay, that is not inclusion. It is assimilation, and the result is shame, disconnection, and the loss of authentic self.

The promise of inclusion in schools often comes with invisible conditions. A child may be welcomed into a classroom, but only if they sit quietly, follow rigid routines, or accept an EA shadowing them. They may be invited to group work, but only if their energy, communication, or needs do not disrupt the flow. When they cannot meet those expectations, exclusion follows. Sometimes it is overt, as when a student is sent home. Other times it is subtle but just as damaging: being removed from the class for “support,” being supervised by an EA rather than taught by a teacher, or being left in the room without meaningful participation. These are not acts of equity. They are acts of control.

And control has consequences. A culture of compliance does not nurture wellness. It damages it. It teaches students to override their own signals. It rewards ignoring distress. It labels needs as misbehavior. It forces children to earn their rest. It punishes saying no. It shames showing up authentically. It tells young people that being included requires disconnecting from themselves in order to make others comfortable.

Control masquerading as inclusion is not care. And without care, there can be no real belonging.

A pedagogy of care is different. It does not start with control, compliance, or conditional acceptance. It begins with relationship. It recognizes the child before the label, the person before the behavior, the dignity before the demand. It sees students not as problems to be managed but as human beings to be understood. It recognizes that learning is rooted in safety, trust, and connection, not in pressure to conform. Care asks: What does this child need to feel safe here? What does this student’s dignity require? How do we reshape the classroom so they can thrive, not just survive?

In a caring relationship there are always two parts: the one who offers care and the one who receives it. For the relationship to be truly caring, the care must not only be given but also received. The person receiving care must feel cared for.

If care is not felt, it is not care.

If we used this as the basis for education, the dynamics would shift. The power imbalance that positions adults as decision-makers and children as passive recipients would give way to reciprocity, trust, and dignity. Care would no longer be something done to students, but something lived with them.

Care also requires attunement. Attunement means being present enough to notice what a student’s body, voice, and emotions are telling us, even when the words are not there. It is listening with more than ears. It is noticing the restless shifting that signals discomfort, the silence that signals overwhelm, the spark of joy that signals connection. Attunement refuses to label these signals as misbehavior. Instead, it honors them as vital communication. Where compliance demands suppression, attunement invites response. It says: I see you. I see all the parts of you, and I refuse to turn my back.

To be attuned is to build classrooms where students do not have to disconnect from themselves to survive. It is to teach them that their needs are not shameful, that rest does not have to be earned, that saying no is not defiance, and that showing up authentically is not a threat but a gift. Attunement is not indulgence. It is justice in action because it shifts the burden of adaptation from the child to the system that surrounds them.

When schools operate from care and attunement, the question is no longer “How can this child fit into what already exists?” but “How can we reshape what exists so this child belongs?” That question changes everything. It moves teachers from managing differences to valuing them. It moves schools from conditional entry to unconditional belonging. It dismantles the power imbalance that frames belonging as a gift granted by those in control. In a community shaped by care, the word inclusion itself becomes unnecessary, because what it usually describes are conditions closer to exclusion than to belonging.

Real equity in education will never come from systems built on permission and compliance. It will come from communities of care, where attunement and relationship are the foundation and belonging is not something to be earned. 

Students know the difference. They know when they are being controlled, and they know when they are being cared for. They flourish not when they are surveilled and corrected, but when they are trusted and valued.

If inclusion in schools continues to mean “We’ll let you in if…” then it is not inclusion at all. It is still control. And control is not justice.

The future of education must be built on care. Not conditional acceptance. Not assimilation. Not control. Care. Attunement. Relationship. Belonging. That is where equity lives. And when belonging becomes the foundation, inclusion will no longer be the measure we cling to, because something deeper and more human will have taken its place.